


Skin Gambit

by twofoldAxiom



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dirty Talk, Double Penetration in One Hole, Dubious Consent, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Inexperienced Military Shenanigans, Inexperienced On Karkat's Part At Least, Militarystuck, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Naval Ranks Used Because They're On A Starship, Overstimulation, Poor thing, Power Imbalance, Slut Shaming, So Is Troll Dave, Threesome - M/M/M, Troll John Is Pretty Terrible, Trollstuck, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 19:55:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6920842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofoldAxiom/pseuds/twofoldAxiom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Karkat Vantas, officially Petty Officer Vantas, and you have run out of options for getting a promotion. You’ve been on this ship for maybe half a sweep now and word of your mutation has gotten out, which is why you need that promotion so badly. Your mutation doesn’t officially matter in the Imperial Navy, at least not anymore, but while you’re still at your current rank (which is pretty good for a mutant, but apparently not enough) you are offered no protection from, say, a particularly casteist portion of the crew that would just love to open a venue for your immediate-or-next-to-immediate defenestration.</p><p>You really, really don’t want to be thrown out an airlock, with or without some form of breathing apparatus. So basically it’s time to kiss ass. Or, in the case of Captain John Egbert and Commander Dave Strider (God, those names sound fake), suck bulge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Things You Do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rainekitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainekitty/gifts).



> For my good friend [tumblr user Rainekitty](http://rainekitty.tumblr.com/), otherwise known here on AO3 as the writer of [No Happily Ever Afters.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3484031/chapters/7651733)
> 
> Requested the tag "Inexperienced Military Shenanigans" for the AO3 tag generator challenge on my blog [HERE.](http://chess-and-snickers.tumblr.com/post/137677621014/i-cant-write-for-my-job-right-now-so-im-going-to)
> 
> Sorry for the wait and hope you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This part is SFW.

Your name is Karkat Vantas, officially Petty Officer Vantas, and you have run out of options for getting a promotion. You’ve been on this ship for maybe half a sweep now and word of your mutation has gotten out, which is why you need that promotion so badly. Your mutation doesn’t _officially_ matter in the Imperial Navy, at least not anymore, but while you’re still at your current rank (which is pretty good for a mutant, but apparently not enough) you are offered no protection from, say, a particularly casteist portion of the crew that would just _love_ to open a venue for your immediate-or-next-to-immediate defenestration.

You really, _really_ don’t want to be thrown out an airlock, with or without some form of breathing apparatus. So basically it’s time to kiss ass. Or, in the case of Captain John Egbert and Commander Dave Strider (God, those names sound fake), suck bulge.

That’s why you’re here. “Here” being the hallway leading to their shared quarters, and really you have no idea how a blueblood and a mutant manage to share quarters without killing each other, but you suppose they must have learned _some_ restraint if they (or at least Strider) managed to climb the ranks at all. You walk with your thoracic support column as straight as you can get it, sight forward to make sure nobody thinks you’re up to anything suspicious despite the feeling that your intentions are branded across your skin like a vivid red Slut notice.

The worst part is probably that you don’t even really think this will work. If anything, you’re going to get _actually_ defenestrated for inappropriate behaviour towards your superiors. If they actually accept, you’ll get defenestrated for being a shitty pail. Overall, you think it’s a bad idea, but the occasional side-eye your fellow crewtrolls give you as you walk steels your resolve. You’ve got one shot at this.

You knock on the bulkhead and hear a soft “oh, shit” that sounds like Strider, the scrape of metal across metal that makes you raise a curious eyebrow, the sound of rustling cloth. The first thing you think is that you’ve _really_ misjudged the situation between them, which makes you blush madly and consider turning right around, but before you can do so, Captain Egbert opens the door.

He’s fully clothed. A little rumpled perhaps, but clothed, and not in a way that suggests he’d just hastily tucked his shirt back into his pants either. You can still hear Strider back there, though Egbert’s broad-shouldered frame ensures you can’t actually see whatever it is Strider is doing without looking suspicious. He coughs into his fist.

“Petty Officer Vantas?” He asks, in a way that clearly broadcasts, as politely as possible, that he’s asking what the fuck you’re doing here invading their privacy. You gulp and straighten your back a little more, in a way you didn’t even know you could, just to look up at him. You try not to let your eyes wander up to his horns, the smooth swooped-back curve of them that distantly reminds you of sine waves. It’s a little unfair how hot he is.

“Captain Egbert.” You say, gulping. “I have a request to make, if it’s not inconvenient for you right now. May I come in?” He glances over his shoulder, probably to Strider, and you’re given a quick beat to actually look at his horns (they’re such nice horns, you can admit you’re a little jealous) and wonder what’s going on before you see the corner of his mouth quirk up in a bucktoothed smirk before he turns back to you and gives a quick toss of the horns towards the interior of their cabin.

“Yeah, that’s fine. You can come in.” He says. You feel a stone drop in your guts as he steps aside, as if you’re being led into a trap or the lair of a cholerbear, but there’s no cholerbear waiting for you inside. The walls are lined with the expected holomaps for the sector, the ceiling softly aglow with luminescent panelling, and the floor is clear of debris and clothing.

That’s about where your expectations stop being accurate, because there’s also a recuperacoon in the corner, as in a proper recuperacoon mounted to the floor and not the built-into-the-wall bunk slot the rest of you sleep in, posters of obscure videogames and shitty movies featuring Troll Nic Cage alongside the maps and diagrams, and an honest to god _pile_ , right there in the other corner. You blush again, trying not to examine it too closely, but you get a pretty good sense of their interests from it anyway, mostly crappy fake magic paraphernalia, and even crappier weapons. It’s kind of obscene.

“Um.” You say, like a complete fucking idiot. “Should I come back?”

“It’s alright, Vantas.” A different voice says, from the ablutions niche, which you recognize as Commander Strider. He comes out wiping his face with a hand towel, which he proceeds to throw onto the pile, and which you force yourself not to follow with your eyes. His voice is rough, and you note he’s flushed and his skin looks spongy, his distinctively white hair roguishly, _obviously,_ tousled from petting hands. You’re willing to bet that underneath his shades he’d have puffy just-cried eyes, and it all falls into place.

They’re moirails.

You suddenly feel _even filthier_ for coming in here with your intentions.

In fact you feel so filthy that you’d be willing to risk reprimand for using up more than your allotted amount of water and cleansing gel in the ablutions hall, which is no small offense, but the Captain’s hand on your shoulder stops you, his fingers long and cool and honestly pretty terrifying in their strength on your body. The coolness of his blood reminds you just why you’re here. You take a deep breath, and mentally tell yourself to keep breathing, as you finally speak.

“Okay. That request I was going to make. I… don’t think there’s proper protocol for this, but considering my life is on the line, I’m taking a shot at it.” You seem to have their attention. They look between each other before regarding you again, Captain Egbert with an interested little smile and Commander Strider with a slightly raised eyebrow. You almost stammer, but you’d practiced this for at least a week, so you don’t. Instead you gulp.

Your fingers reach up to your collar and you tilt your head back just slightly, baring your throat as you unclasp the first button of your uniform. You can see Captain Egbert’s eyes widen just a little, though Commander Strider’s face is completely unimpressed. Your face burns with humiliation, you can’t believe you’re honestly doing this, but there’s no backing out now.

“I… would like to offer my _personal_ services, if you’re interested.” You gulp again, can practically feel their eyes on the vulnerable curve of your throat. They could slit it any second, mid-sentence if they felt like it, so you hurry along. “Concupiscently, I mean. I understand that it’s far outside any sort of established… _conditions_ for interaction with one’s superiors, but so long as I’m not intruding on any properly quadranted territory-”

“You aim high, Vantas.” Strider drawls, which cuts you off and makes you choke. “There are like, what, thirteen or so ranks between you and _me_ alone, more between you and Captain Egbert. You also didn’t specify which one of us you’re actually after. Like, I can’t help but think there’s something a little more than a flush crush at work here, right?”

You remember, distantly, your first impression of Strider when you were still a recruit. He’d been a couple ranks lower back then, but you recall thinking he was sharp as a tack, and you’d wondered if you could match up to that at his age, if you made it that far.

You stand before him only a sweep below when he was Ensign Strider, and yet you’re not even a third of the way there. You bristle, and he does a flick of his long, bladelike horns at you. “Well?” He says.

You chew your lip and try not to glare, try to keep it professional. The thought of _this_ being “professional” makes your guts feel knotted up. “You’re right.” You say, glancing between him and Captain Egbert, who despite his earlier impression actually seems to be the more welcoming one. He looks amused, if nothing else. “This isn’t just a dumb troll following his bulge. It’s about my rank.”

“You expect to get a promotion out of this.” He interrupts you again, and you gape. You can see his lips go tight, see the tension in his neck as he steps closer to you and you think _this is it, this is how you die,_ but he stops in front of you and doesn’t make a move to uncross his arms.

Captain Egbert is resting his chin in one hand as he watches, his own lips faintly quirked up at the corners, and you feel oddly like he’s mocking you. You shove the feeling down as hard as possible, because of course he’s probably mocking you, he’s watching his moirail tear down a presumptuous lesser. You would fucking _delight_ in something like that, if you had a moirail in the first place, let alone a moirail high-ranked enough to do something like that.

Your thoughts are abruptly cut off by Commander Strider slapping you in the face, hard, so hard you can practically feel your puzzlesponge rattling around in your pan from it and so fast you didn’t see it coming at all. The pain doesn’t hit you until a moment later, and it’s a bright, dazzling pain that makes half your vision white out for a couple of seconds, aches in your jaw like you’d been shot. You refuse to touch the burning mark where Strider slapped you, though, instead looking almost bewilderedly at him. “Sir?”

“Get out of here with that shit. Look me in the eye, motherfucker, do I look like the kind of troll that whored my way to the top? Have some goddamn self-respect.” His voice is completely even, and if this were a casual conversation you would assume he wasn’t mad at all, that he was having a go at you. The thing is though, that you’ve just made a wildly inappropriate advance at your commanding officers and he has every right to indignantly throw you out the airlock before falling back into the comfortingly cool arms of his moirail, so you’re not dumb enough to think he isn’t pissed.

Somehow that doesn’t dissuade you from opening your snarky whore mouth. “With all due respect, Commander, I wasn’t casting any aspersions on _your_ character. If anything, I was embarrassing myself. I’m _still_ embarrassing myself.”

“But did you stop to consider that you’re not the only one after John’s smooth, grey, bara-as-fuck ass? Because that summarizes the crew just perfectly. You would _really_ not be saving yourself by getting in his globehuggers, or mine for that matter.” He delivers all of this in such a completely matter-of-fact deadpan that you can’t help but feel a little pissed. Dare you say even a little _pitch._ “You’d probably just make it worse, not to mention that, as the only other ranking mutant on the ship, you _automatically_ influence _my_ reputation as Uncontested, Unreachable Coolguy. I mean, come on, think about it; everyone on this ship is casteist as Hell, no lie, so neither of us are going to get away with some hypothetical smooth, hot, concupiscent action with our commanding officers without the rumour mill making metaphorical aspersion flour out of it. Especially you. Seriously Vant _ass,_ you’re out of your league.”

Your already-tenuous hold on your temper snaps.

“Well _excuse_ me _, Commander_ Strider, but if we’re going to be casting baseless accusations on personal integrity, your rank is already way beyond the inquisitory statement enabled sector and smack dab in right-out offensive calumny permissive territory by virtue of your _moirail_ being a _blueblood_ and a _captain_. Hmm!” You feign surprise, one hand on your cheek and the other cupping your elbow. “I can’t think of any possible way that may have influenced your ranking!”

“Oh _shut the fuck up.”_ He snaps. You clamp your teeth shut with a click, stiffen all over. You fucked up and now you’re thinking of all the hundreds of ways he’s going to kill you then and there for your insubordination among other things. To your surprise, he neither hits you again nor makes a move to eviscerate you. “You of all people should know that my moirail has nothing to do with how I got this far. It’s because I’m the most dangerous motherfucker on this ship, is why, and several other ships besides. I got where I am by slicing up the opposition, and _you_ could stand to do the same.”

“And you think I haven’t tried that?” You say, because you can’t keep your mouth shut and you’re doomed anyway, so you may as well get the last word. You take a step towards him, and hate the fact that you have to look up at him this close. “You think I would come here and try to pull this shit if I had a choice? I came here because I’m running out of time, and the nearest asshole in rank to me is a paranoid fuck that doesn’t really lend herself well to casual murder plots. If you’ve forgotten already, then I’m here as a stark reminder that not everything below Ensign is all glitter and unicorns! I’d go so far as saying that _you_ ought to remember what it was like to have to watch your step because some casteist morons can’t tell rank from blood!”

You can feel your blood drumming in your head, your bloodpusher thudding against your thoracic struts so hard that you wonder if it’s going to beat itself to a pulp against them. Strider’s lip twitches, and you’re not sure if it was in ire or amusement, but the both of you are separated by the muscular _wall_ of blueblood known as Captain Egbert before you can find out. He still looks like he’s holding back laughter, but there’s a sharp glint in his eyes too as he speaks.

“Okay, so, what I got from that is that I need to play temporary auspistice right now because _someone_ doesn’t know how to behave towards his superiors.” He says, glancing at you. His fingers tighten on your shoulder, and you immediately quail a little more at the feeling before he turns his attention back to his stony-faced moirail. “But hey, come on Dave, he bared his throat to you. I don’t know about you but even if he doesn’t get a promotion out of it, _which he won’t_ ,” (you wince when he emphasizes the words) “that took some globes. Globes which I for one can appreciate! So here’s the deal.”

He turns the both of you to face him, and head-on that dangerous, half-mad glint in his eyes is a lot more arresting and a lot more intimidating. You notice just how blue they are, too, and you wonder if he’s high up enough that half-mad might be a conservative measure. “I vote we give him a shot! Like as a casual fuckbuddy or something. You could probably use it, since you’re such a tightass all the time and you haven’t gotten any nook for, I dunno, since your last matesprit I guess. And on his end, we keep him alive.”

Strider doesn’t miss a beat, reaching up to audibly pap Egbert’s cheek. “Okay what I’m getting from that wordvomit bonanza is that you think I need to get laid, and that you can’t keep your fronds out of my personal business, but that doesn’t explain what _you_ get out of it, because I know you, and you wouldn’t just sign me up and drop me off like a lusus at the pupascouts.” His fingers pinch Egbert’s cheek in a way that makes you blush. “Not to mention you just said he wouldn’t be getting that promotion he was after, so that leads me to think you’ve got something else in mind. So what about you?”

“Well, I get the reward of knowing my moirail let off some steam with a hot piece of ass.” He says it with an eyebrow-waggle and a slight drop in tone that you _really hope_ is a joke. Strider lightly punches him in the arm and he laughs. “Okay, no, seriously; since he’s offering, I’m taking him up on that offer, too. Maybe not at the same time as you, but I’m interested in seeing what it’s like to bang a mutant.”

Strider mock-slaps Egbert, which you note is only slightly different from the way he paps him. “You fucking cad.” He says, a hint of affection in his deadpan that you would have missed if not for how _tender_ the moment was. He shifts back to business a half-second after. “And how do you propose we do just that? Keep him alive, I mean.” You perk up instantly at the words. Strider doesn’t seem to notice. “I already mentioned that just pailing him a couple times isn’t going to do it.”

Egbert grins like a wriggler. “I haven’t worked out the finer details yet, but I’m getting there, because contrary to popular belief- i.e. _your_ opinion- I have _ways_ , damnit.”

You chew on your tongue before speaking. “And what kind of ways? I think I have the right to know.”

He shrugs, but his smile is downright wicked. “Like I said, no finer details of the agreement yet, but you know that old trope of ‘conditional quadrants’?”

Your eyes widen and you gulp. His grin shows too many teeth, gleaming sharply in the low light as he explains. “The gist of it is nobody gets to toss you out an airlock or else they’ll follow you out, since it’d be within Dave’s and my right to take it out on them or their quadrants for fucking with ours, while we get to be sure that besides this mess, you won’t be stepping out of any lines we set for you.”

 _Because otherwise, we’ll stop protecting you._ He doesn’t say it, but you can feel the weight of the words behind his smile. It’s actually pretty brilliant, you think, but the thought of being under that sort of control makes you shudder. He wraps an arm companionably around your shoulders, and Strider’s as well. “So you agree, right? This is the best I could come up with on such short notice, but that hasn’t stopped me before. Maybe you’ll get that promotion some other time, but this was a really bad way of doing it.”

There’s a lump in the back of your throat you can’t quite swallow around as you think over his words. Strider takes the chance to speak instead.

“I just have one question.” He says as he gingerly peels off Egbert’s arm, steps back to regard the two of you with Egbert still holding you close. “Which quadrant? Because like Hell am I taking this grubfucker flushed.”

“I don’t see why we can’t share pitch.” Egbert says it so nonchalantly that you have to gape. It’s not unheard of, but the thought of it twists weirdly in you, makes your face go hot. Egbert notices immediately and chuckles, a warm, pleasant sound that makes you want to strangle him.

He lets go of you and stage-whispers to Strider. “You know, unless _he_ thinks he can’t take us. I wouldn’t be surprised if he backed out now.”

Now, rationally, you realize that he’s baiting you. This was a mistake from the beginning, and you should turn around and try to forget you’d ever humiliated yourself and given them such ample blackmail against you. They wouldn’t use it, you think; they’re too high up on the metaphorical ladder to bother with smallfry like you.

But rationality went out the window a long time ago, and besides, you remind yourself, you got this far without getting killed; this could be your only chance to make that worthwhile. You still feel so far in over your horns that you couldn't find the surface without a flashlight, but you square your shoulders and look Captain Egbert in the eye.

“I’m not backing down.” You say, and you think you sound more confident than you feel, like you’ve had more than your few nervous pitch flings in the past. “It’s an arrangement I can live with, and it’s an arrangement I accept.”

Strider and Egbert look at each other in surprise, and you’re momentarily pleased to see Strider’s facade crack, just for those few seconds that it does, but then Egbert licks his lips and Strider does some kind of upward-nod, and you know there’s no going back.

 


	2. And What They Bring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This part is the porn.

“Alright, then!” Egbert says. He licks across his teeth hungrily, and his voice takes on an almost imperceptible edge, the kind you’ve heard a thousand times before, that bears no questions. “You should probably get out of that uniform. Wouldn’t want to leave any stains.”

You’re tempted to ask what the stains will be. The reassurance that you’ll get out of this alive isn’t particularly effective right just then, as you undo the rest of the buttons of your jacket, then slide it down your arms and, without anywhere else to put it, fold it onto the floor. Egbert watches you intently the whole time, and Strider almost clinically. A faint shiver runs down your back.

You’re not sure if you’re glad for the fact that under the jacket is a one-piece plugsuit. It should make the ordeal of stripping down for them easier, but also means you have less between you and them as you struggle with finding the seal at your collarbones, before a warm hand closes over yours and yanks your fingers away. Apparently you were too slow, because Strider finds the seal with ease, popping it open with one of his claws.

You look up and see his face bare of his shades for a moment, before your face is turned to the side by much cooler fingers and oh, that’s a tongue, that’s _Captain Egbert’s tongue_ , and he’s forcing it past your lips, curling it against your palate in a way that makes you whine, makes your mind go pleasantly hazy at the edges. You don’t remember the last time you were kissed, and he’s _good_ at it, better than good, sucking on your lips and nibbling just right to make you let your guard down before there’s a sharp pinch that makes you yelp and you taste blood. He swallows down the indignant noise with a smirk that you can _feel._

Strider isn’t one to be outdone, but he’s less careful about what he’s doing to you, his claws leaving tracks down your chest as he rakes them down your skin to get your clothes open. Your hands find their way to one of Egbert’s horns and Strider’s shoulders to steady yourself and maybe try to feel like you have a handle on the situation, but he’s having none of it, his hands get under your suit to trace clawpoints along your vestigial gillslits with a breathy-soft “holy shit, he has _gills_ ” before he’s biting you hard at the crook of your shoulder, making you arch your back and moan. You’re thankful he’s got rustblood-blunt teeth, but the sting still makes your eyes water, and you know that’s going to bruise bad. (The thought that he’s marking you up already is somehow the right kind of awful to make your bulge throb.)

Egbert sucks your lower lip between his teeth as he pulls back and grins, fangs stained red. You mewl at the sight and hate yourself a little for the noise when he licks it off to look at Strider. “You’re taking way too long there, he’s gonna be done before I get my bulge in him if you keep that up.”

“If you were copping the mothergrub of all feels on someone’s gills, you’d take your time too.” He huffs against your skin but retracts his hands, dragging his claws feather-light over your gillslits and making you clench your jaw. Somehow you aren’t sure if that feels good or not before it’s over.

It doesn’t matter; what does matter is how Strider peels your hand off Egbert’s horn to take hold of it himself and kiss him on the mouth in a way that is very obscenely _not_ pale. You find yourself staring as they makeout in front of you, sloppy little noises meeting your auriculars at every movement, and Egbert looks pretty into it but keeps sneaking glances at you as he all but tonguefucks Strider; you gulp again, watch a little too closely as his tongue slides along Strider’s lower lip, and embarrass yourself with another noise, a choked, throaty chirp, as your bulge unsheathes in your plugsuit.

Alarmed, you move to press your free hand between your legs out of instinct, but Strider is viper quick and snatches you by the wrist. You squeeze his shoulder and growl at him, snapping your teeth in his face; your own is so hot you could probably cook crickets on it, and you genuinely find yourself hating his pokerface when he pointedly glances at your squirming crotch and raises a single eyebrow.

“Slut.” He says. Your face burns, and your bulge tries to tie itself in a knot.

Cool lips find the bruise on your neck and you gasp before you can retort. Egbert licks the fang marks, slowly, drawing it out as one of his arms wraps around your waist. You realize too late that it’s not a romantic embrace, that he’s just pinning you before he sinks his fangs into the meat and makes you _scream_. There’s no way at _least_ three corridors down didn’t hear that, and you try to cover your mouth with the hand that was on Strider’s shoulder before he holds that too. You thrash.

“ _Fuck!_ ” You hiss as his mouth leaves your flesh only to sink in, shallower, a couple of inches down. You can feel blood welling in the wounds, and tears (pain, they’re just pain, but you don’t want them to fall) welling in your eyes, hot and stinging, and it only seems to make him more eager; you can feel _his_ bulge squirming against the upper curve of your ass. He grinds against you with a laugh not quite the same as his earlier chuckle, louder, maybe a little evil. You growl at him. “I did _not_ sign up to be a rainbowdrinker’s meal if _that_ is what’s going on here, Captain!”

“Relax, it’s a fetish.” Strider finally lets go of your wrists, and you almost take the opportunity to punch him, but Egbert’s hands snake down your arms and take your sleeves down with him. He tangles your hands in them and ties them behind your back. You struggle against the give of it, but there’s no ground to be gained; you can feel the knot tightening as you pull.

“You look good like this.” Egbert hums cheerily in your aural shell, a sound that, much to your eternal shame, goes straight to your nook. You breathe hard through your nose, trying to calm down from the rush of hormones making your head spin. You don’t remember the last time anyone’s ever made you _need_ like this, or if it was ever this quickly. He mouths at the curve, and the hand that isn’t holding you against him (splayed across your belly, a cool pressure that only reminds you how hot you’ve gotten) slides under the crotch of your suit.

You tilt your head back and bite your lip to stop another moan as his fingers ( _finally,_ you think) tangle in your bulge. You have to keep yourself from rutting up against them, desperately trying to get some friction. Strider tuts at you for your apparent eagerness, and you think about how reluctant you were just a few moments ago. You feel like you’re being swept away, unstoppably so, like being caught in a hurricane, before it’s gotten a little too hard to think about anything besides the way Egbert squeezes your bulge, the coolness of him _shocking_ in such a warm place.

Strider makes a sound that could very well be a small groan before his hands squeeze your hips and he grinds his crotch into Egbert’s hand, grinding into your bulge by extension. You have half a second to prepare yourself before Egbert takes the hint and takes his hand away, and the shift from cool fingers to hot, very obvious bulge through a couple thin layers of fabric is enough that you lose it with a whimper.

Egbert smiles into the back of your neck and you could probably die then and there, you almost can’t believe that happened but the sticky wetness between your legs is proof enough. “Already? Huh. I guess he really couldn’t take it after all.” There’s a laugh behind his words, all teeth, and you clench your fists in the fabric of your sleeves as you grit your own. Strider’s lips are pressed tight like he’s trying not to laugh.

You breathe deeply. “Not yet.” You growl, glaring at Strider more because he’s the one directly in front of you than anything else. You’ll probably regret this but you don’t care. “I’m not done until the both of you are wrung _dry._ ”

“That’s the spirit.” Strider says it deader than dust, but there’s heat behind it this time, and you let yourself be proud of getting even that from him, let yourself be proud that you’re getting more reactions from him even with your genetic material sliding slowly down your trembling thighs. He gives your hip a meaty smack before gesturing for Egbert to back it up a bit, which he does with one last pinch to your rear. You have to catch yourself a little without Egbert holding you up (you hadn’t realized he was holding you up until he let go and your jellylegs nearly made you _really_ embarrass yourself), and you’ve seen enough porn to know where this is headed when they both stand in front of you but you still can’t help your blushing face when Strider says, “On your knees.”

You hesitate, as if you hadn’t heard him right; but your pride is on the line here and you don’t want (don’t need) to be told twice. Still, the sound of your knees hitting the floor seems unnecessarily loud to you, and looking up at them from this angle sets your bloodpusher into a weird flutter. Strider runs his fingers through your hair with one hand, the other undoing his pants. Without much success by the look of it, because his fingers curl tight in your hair, enough to cause some discomfort while he struggles with the opening. “Son of a _bitch_ , why can’t these stupid things have hooks instead of buttons…”

Egbert doesn’t even say a word, just lightly bats Strider’s hand away before undoing his pants himself, and Strider moans like a pornstar when he’s not holding back apparently, and which you would probably appreciate more if it weren’t for his bulge making itself known right in front of your face. Your own bulge still aches from earlier, but you can’t help the twinge of heat that goes through it at the sight. Egbert definitely notices, though. He grins down at you and presses a boot between your legs, forcing you to spread your thighs a more until you can feel your suit squishing up against your nook, sloppy-wet with your own cooling material.

“Yeah, just like that.” Strider murmurs as he takes hold of the base of his bulge and tugs you forward, not too hard but with no doubt that it will get that way if you pull back, so you don’t; you awkwardly lean forward, terribly aware that your legs are spread too wide and your hands are behind you so you wouldn’t be able to catch yourself if Strider let you fall, or worse, if Strider overbalanced you and kept his hold on your hair. You only have the faintest idea of what you’re doing as he drags his bulge across your lips and you flick your tongue out to lick them clean.

The taste isn’t something you parse as good or bad, but it’s sticky-warm and faintly sour on your tongue. Strider looks at you expectantly as his bulge makes another pass over your tongue this time, and there’s nowhere to go because his hand is in your hair so you stick your tongue out further and let it tangle against the warmth. He groans above you- you glance at Egbert and he has a hand in his pants, probably with a couple fingers deep in his nook- and the taste is so much stronger like this, almost fruity but with too much salt and something slightly bitter besides.

“Come on, Vantas, you know what to do.” You don’t, not really, but you think of porn and you think of your romance novels and this is nothing like them but they give you enough of an idea. You open your mouth, fold your lips over your upper teeth, stick your tongue out more, and look up at Strider. He makes another pleased groan and his hips tilt forward, and his bulge coils into your mouth with a slick sort of noise that gets a surprisingly needy-sounding whine out of you. “Ffff _fuck_ , didn’t think I’d ever get anyone this warm…”

“Don’t tell me about it before it’s my turn!” Egbert teases, but his eyes are fixed on your face. You must make for a Hell of a picture, on your knees with your legs spread, your mouth being fucked on your commander’s bulge. You squirm slightly, looking up at Strider as he tugs you forward in aching little increments. The taste of him coats your whole tongue now, and the slick texture of his bulge slides along your palate and the insides of your cheeks. You think this isn’t so bad until the tip meets the beginning of your throat, and suddenly everything from the pit of your gut to the back of your tonsils just seizes up; you can’t breathe, your gastric sac feels like it’s going to jump out of your mouth, and the tears well in your eyes again, much faster for some reason. Strider seems to think that’s hot and _pushes_ past your tonsils, and you thrash on his bulge.

“Damn, Vantas, am I really the first troll to get _literal_ lip from you?” He groans and bucks his hips, and you hate yourself a little more when it makes you whimper and gag. “Shit, though, you really know how to treat a bulge; you’re a natural at this...”

The burning has spread from your face to the tips of your ears and down your neck, but you recall Egbert’s taunt, recall what you promised, and you have no idea what you’re really doing but you start to suck. You hate that he can tell that you’ve never done this before, but at the sound of him moaning again, you keep going. “Yeah, _fuck_ , get some tongue in there too…”

You feel like you’re going to pass out from lack of oxygen before he finally pulls back with a growl and you get a sudden rush of air. Somehow you choke on it, and that gets worse when he starts slamming his bulge in and out of your mouth, deeper and deeper on every pass, until you’re _really_ choking on it, your gillslits flaring painfully at your sides, trying to take in water where there’s none, a burning prickle that makes you lightheaded. He keeps speaking the whole time, _so good_ and _so hot_ and _fuck, just like that, keep doing that_ ; you don’t really need to _do_ anything, you just hold your mouth open and struggle to get a breath between thrusts, tears and drool and snot making a mess of your face, dribbling down your chin, your neck, your bared chest. He yanks at your hair, pulling your head around like you’re nothing but a troll-shaped concupiscent aid, grinding and twisting his bulge in your throat or into your cheeks.

You’re surprised when he pulls out all the way and lets go of your hair, and you nearly do pitch forward before you catch yourself, trembling, looking up at him with hazy, teary eyes before the first spurt of genetic material hits you in the face. It’s warm and slimy and the taste sticks to the back of your throat when he aims the last of it into your open mouth, dribbling down your lips from your slack jaw like the rest of the fluids you’ve been leaking.

“Nice.” He mutters. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone getting off to a facial outside of porn.” He licks his dry lips and glances to Egbert, and you’re even more surprised to realize that after that sort of treatment your bulge is back to coiling in your suit, even pulling down the fabric more to get at the open air. It stripes wetly over your inner thigh, leaving a bright smear on the shiny black fabric.

“I kind of want to take a picture.” Egbert muses, and you bite your lip to stop a growl at the thought, but he squeezes your cheeks until you open your mouth again, sticks his fingers in to feel your tongue. You think about biting him while he does so; your teeth aren’t as sharp as his, but they’re sharper than Strider’s and could do some damage besides. But you don’t, you need this, and not just because of the empty ache in your nook.

He retracts his fingers and gently tips your chin up so you close your mouth, starts stroking two fingers down either side of your throat until you swallow the partial load. He smiles at you like you’re a barkbeast that just did a trick on command, before he stands up and you see _his_ bulge.

He must have undone his pants while you were busy getting facefucked, while all you could see and hear and feel through the haze of getting fucked by Strider. You’d probably have noticed it otherwise, because damn, it’s pretty fucking proportional to the rest of his body, by which you mean you’re fairly certain he could have had a career in concupiscent porn if he hadn’t taken to being a Naval officer. He threads it through his fingers, which then come away with strings of deep blue that you can’t stop looking at, and he smiles when he sees you watching in a way that makes you feel small and wrigglerish again.

“My turn.” He says, like it’s a game; which you suppose it is, to him. He cups your chin with his clean hand and strokes his bulge with the other, and you can’t help the way that draws your eye simply because of the sheer _size_ of him. It curls against your lower lip, long enough that even from this distance it’s the underside rather than the tip that presses against the seam. You don’t think you can take it just yet, but you open up like you did for Strider and lick up the length of him, looking up at him as you suckle and slurp along the sides and the underside, even pressing little kisses to where it meets his sheathe. He tastes different from Strider, though not unpleasantly so; he’s nearly cold in your mouth, and you can almost identify the sweetness on the back of your throat, something like the aftertaste of cranberry sauce.

You can feel the smears of prematerial coating your cheeks as you work, and he groans as he ruts against your face, his clean hand playing with one of your horns. He squeezes the sensitive membrane at the hornbed and your focus narrows down to pressure and cool wetness on your cheek, heat between your legs, the way he runs his thumbclaw up the sensitive inner curve of the horn he’s holding. It makes you want to shiver and lean into the touch, and you’re achingly aware of the sweat trickling down the back of your neck and all the sticky fluid drying on your front.

At least like this, you’ve got the control to look at what Strider’s doing. He’s watching, your eyes meet, and he seems to dare you to look away while he slowly fingers his nook, his bulge wrapped around his wrist. You feel your own nook throb, the sloppy, cool wetness of your genetic material slicking up the fabric around it, reminding you that your hands are tied and you can’t get yourself off. You growl in the back of your throat as you test the knot of your sleeves one more time, and Egbert laughs above you.

“Aww, feeling ignored?” He croons, pressing his thumb into your horn a little firmer, and you want to wriggle because of it but you can’t with his hold. He smiles down at you and twists his fingers, making you gasp, and he takes the opportunity to feed his bulge into your mouth while your lips are parted.

He doesn’t start off slowly like Strider did, he’s rough and fast and intense right from the start, hardly pulling out enough to let you breathe and bruising your lips with the force of his thrusts. You can barely make any noise around him besides gagging and coughing, and even then it’s all muffled by the thickness of him.

More than that, you struggle more as he fucks your mouth. If you thought Strider had a punishing pace, you’re not sure how you would describe Egbert’s. He makes breathless, ragged noises as his bulge slides between your lips, and you hardly even need to squeeze them together, you just have to make sure they stay around your teeth. He curls his fingers around your horns and makes your eyes go unfocused, and you pull uselessly at the fabric keeping your hands in place again.

When he pulls out, you start coughing again, and you don’t even really care as his bulge curls wetly against your face. Not at least until it curls around your right horn, the slickness of it so pheromone-laden against the sensory hairs that you swear you could drink it in. He’s caressing your other horn in slow, matching circles while he says something to Strider that you can’t quite pick up, not with the world muffled and weird with oxygen deprivation and the hold on your horns.

He lets go and you look blearily up at him. He chuckles again, tilts your face up but lets your mouth hang open as you pant. You can feel his material on your lips, probably mingling in purplish stains with Strider’s, but the way he looks at you, you could almost forget about it; you could almost pretend that look was pity.

Of course, then he speaks to Strider again, gestures to his moirail’s bulge still coiling in the open air. “You ready for round two, yet, or do you mind if I finish off in his nook first?”

“Go ahead.” Strider shrugs with one shoulder, wraps his fingers around his bulge and gives it a quick squeeze. “I could watch.”

“Nice.” Egbert looks back down to you, and the look on his face is predatory and hungry again, makes you want to back up a little. But you can’t, because he walks around to behind you and pulls up your hands. You grit your teeth again as he tugs them a little higher, your shoulders aching, and for a harrowing moment you’re sure he’s trying to dislocate them, but then you feel him tugging at the knot of your sleeves. They come loose easily and he lets go, and you turn your head to ask why.

He answers before you can say anything, smiling impishly. “Can’t get this off of you with it knotted around your hands like that, can I?” And you stifle a yelp as he slaps your ass open-handed, harshly enough that he catches you by surprise. You growl at him, now that you’ve got your breath and some of your wits back.

“I can get it off myself, thanks.” You grouse as he reaches for your sleeves again. You struggle to get your arms out, but you manage, and then you start working your suit down your hips. “And yes, I’m aware that I wasn’t having much success with it a minute ago, but that’s taken cared of, isn’t it?”

“Sassy.” Egbert huffs, a small, quick laugh, good-natured even, if it weren’t for the situation around it. “And Dave’s right, you seem pretty eager despite what you said! You sure you don’t have a crush?” He elbows you, lightly, jokingly. “Come on, you can tell me. I won’t tell him.”

You really wish he wouldn’t joke while you were trying to strip down for him, your bulge might still be interested but it still makes this more awkward than it needs to be. You’re trying to be sexy, damn it, what’s his game?

His hands slide over your bare hips once you get your suit around your knees, almost soothing but for his claws making thin lines on your skin. You’re tempted to push him away, except he pulls you back against him, his bulge sliding teasingly across the lips of your nook this time, cool enough to make you shiver at the difference. It’s easier to work like this, you think, as you press your ass back and try to get your bulge tangled in his.

Strider comes back into the picture by winding your bulge around his free hand. You don’t recall how he got in front of you, but you don’t care, the warmth of his fingers is subtly different from yours in a way that’s _just_ enough to make it good. He doesn’t even say anything this time, merely tilts your face up and licks a stripe of genetic material off your lower lip. You shiver.

“Isn’t that gross?” You ask. “That’s your own slurry.” But he pays it no mind except for lightly bumping your horn with one of his before he takes your gasp as an opportunity to plunge his tongue into your mouth. You moan, and if it’s kind of gross that he’s sucking his own cum out of your mouth, you don’t care.

You _do_ care about Egbert’s bulge still teasing your nook lips, though, because you’re not getting much stimulation from Strider’s hand while he keeps your writhing bulge pinned against your belly. You whine into Strider’s mouth, trying to give him a hint while he tonguefucks you. You get a nip for your efforts, on the side opposite to where Egbert bit you.

“Think he’s ready, John.” Is the only warning you get before Egbert takes the signal and starts working his bulge into you. Fuck, that’s a lot of bulge. You thought he was big in your mouth, but in your nook, oversensitive from being ignored and not even given a finger to work with first, he feels _massive_. He’s so much cooler in there, too, makes a jolt go up your thoracic column even with how slowly he’s feeding it in. Your nook aches from the fullness of it.

Then he moves. You moan, loudly, embarrassingly, into Strider’s mouth as Egbert starts up, slow at first like he’s trying to get used to how tight you are. You can’t help the way your body locks up around him, can’t help the way your nook throbs and quivers with your pulse pounding in your veins. You realize he was only moving slowly because he was working you open because as soon as his thighs are flush with yours, he curls his bulge inside you and you _mewl_ in Strider’s mouth, spilling all over his pants.

He swears into your mouth, but he laughs too, and he’s still jerking you off with achingly slow squeezes. You’re babbling, but you don’t know what you’re saying, can’t hear yourself because he’s still kissing you hard, harder than he was earlier at any rate. Egbert mouths at the wound he left in your neck and does that curl again, right up against your shameglobes, squeezing material out of you. It hurts so _good_.

You reach between your legs and trace the overstretched lips of your nook, feel how he’s got you spread wide open on his bulge. You wonder how you ever managed to get that into your mouth. As if on cue, he bucks his hips, and you feel the movement jolt every bend in your nook like he’s trying to straighten them out with his sheer girth.

“Easy Egbert, you’ll break him.” Strider mumbles, his tone teasing, breaks the kiss to lick up your cheeks up to the corner of one of your eyes where he presses his lips almost chastely. “Look; shit, man, he’s crying. Is he that bad, Vantas?”

“Gnngh,” Is all you can reply.

“He’s good, just a little overwhelmed.” Egbert answers easily. If you had your wits about you like you did a few moments ago, you would snap at him, but he curls his bulge a different way and you just melt. Again, he pulls out, and just _shoves_ back in, and this time you’re entirely sure that he’s forcefully realigned your insides. The fact that this should horrify you doesn’t register, because instead your thighs are quaking and covered in mixed material, your hands are clutching at Strider’s arms while he shuffles closer to you and Egbert until his crotch is flush with yours.

For a second you think you’re going to get the dubious honor of fucking his nook, but instead you feel his bulge coiling around yours, strong and smooth and wet. Your bulge is so wrung out from coming twice that it kind of hurts, but it’s the same kind of hurt as the soreness in your nook, hot as sin. You hate yourself a little for the whimpers that gets out of your throat, sounds that just keep going because of the way they fuck you in tandem. Every time you think you’ve got a handle on yourself, Egbert twists against your globes or Strider squeezes hard, and you’re undone all over again. It hurts so bad you feel more tears squeezed out of your eyes, your vision going grey at the edges as they roll up in your sockets.

You feel cool fluid settling inside you when your head starts to clear, hear Egbert sigh as he comes deeper in your nook than you thought anything could feasibly go. One down for each of them and you’ve already come thrice, things aren’t looking good for you.

“Do you think we need to slow down?” Egbert asks, idly punctuating his words with a hard thrust that shoves you against Strider and makes you gasp. Your nook feels like it’ll never take being this full again, stuffed with slurry and bulge enough that you can feel it leaking past the stretched, swollen lips, and knowing your arrangement you have some bad news for it. He mouths at your ear with a thoughtful hum. “Mmh… Think it might be too much, Vantas?”

You feel like you’re dying, like you’ll die if you come again, you’re so wrung out that your limbs are heavy and twitching slightly, but you still get that sick feeling that he’s goading you, and you hate yourself more for falling for it. You scrape together enough sponge matter past the drool and static to tell him, “If you dare slow down- f- _fuck,_ I’ll feed you your own bulge.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” Strider pets your hair almost fondly, then squeezes your left horn cruelly hard, making you gasp and whine. “But if you say so…”

And suddenly your bulge is free of Strider’s, though Egbert grabs hold of you so you can’t help but rut against his hand, clenching your teeth with a hiss as his calloused palm scrapes across the oversensitized flesh. You still manage to growl, “What’s the idea, backing out now?”

“Oh no.” Strider says, repositioning himself. You feel the hot lick of his bulge across your aching nook and your eyes go wide, and there’s something vicious in his tone when he speaks next. “But this is _your_ last chance to back out, Vantas.”

You’ll die, you think. Egbert wraps his arms around your middle and nuzzles into the crook of your jaw affectionately, his bulge still plugging you up, reminding you where he is with the occasional shallow thrust, the occasional slow curl that makes your jaw tense. But you look into Strider’s eyes, and this is the last stretch. You blink back tears and soldier on.

“ _Fuck me._ ” You say, defiant. Strider nods to Egbert, and you don’t see what he does in return but he pulls out partway, much to your relief which you fight not to show, though your shoulders sag. You feel more material dripping down your soiled thighs, probably staining your uniform irreparably. You’ll have to chuck this one into the trash compactor and hopefully nobody notices if you wear one twice, and you’d be working out the logistics of this if Strider’s bulge- burning, Hellishly hot compared to Egbert’s now- wasn’t mercilessly pushing into your sloppy nook, right beside Egbert’s, definitely stretching the bends too straight just by sheer girth alone.

You didn’t think you could stretch that far. You’re distantly aware of a high-pitched keening and  when Strider covers your mouth to shut you up you realize it’s you. It’s a disgraceful sound. It only gets worse when they start to move. Your grip on Strider’s shoulders is so tight that it’s a wonder if it won’t bruise. You’re a mess, gibbering, sobbing; you wonder how these two can stand to touch you when you’re this disgusting, when you’re this fucking wrecked, dripping with the combined fluids of three people.

“God, it’s so _tight._ ” You distantly register that as Egbert’s voice moaning in your ear. You can feel them both inside you, starkly separated; Egbert fills you up more but Strider is more active, curling and thrashing with every thrust until you feel like your nook can’t go back to the shape it should be, his bulge so hot even against you that Egbert is painfully cold in turn.

You can feel both of them squeezing around you just as much as it feels like they’ll rip you apart, their chests flush to your front and back as they move with each other, rocking you back and forth. Your bare skin slides across the smooth fabric of their clothes, sticky with sweat and material now, their hands cupping and squeezing and scratching at you in so many places that you can only sigh and moan and trill in return. It’s not fair, you would think, if you could think.

Strider murmurs something to Egbert and you can feel the change in their movements, taste it behind your teeth and under your horns, and the world comes into clear focus for just a moment, just long enough for you to say, “Wait, what about a pail?”

Egbert laughs huskily against your neck and squeezes you tight around the waist, trapping you. Strider glides his hands over your shoulders.

“Come on, Vantas, you’re smarter than that. You have to be.” He says, and Egbert spells it out.

“No time,” He breaths, groaning as he ruts deep into you at the same time Strider does, all the way in. “You’ll just have to do.”

And then they fill you at once, moaning in unison while you bite back a scream of pain, because damn it you can’t, you _can’t_ , even with how you bloat with their combined loads, even with how it forces your bulge out so far it stings, even with the last, aching spurts of your own slurry getting squeezed out of your globes and onto Strider’s shirt. You pant when they’re done, with them, and your nook aches so bad you’ll be amazed if you can sit down later. You don’t know if you can walk. You’re pretty sure you’ve pissed yourself and you’re definitely crying again.

Strider pulls out first and you feel a rush of fluid spill out of you, splatter onto the floor, and you’re so done that you can only gurgle softly and slump forward into the nasty puddle of it. Egbert soothingly rubs your shoulders before he pulls out too, and you feel his contribution to this disaster dripping onto your ass.

“You did pretty great!” He pants, as if you’d won a race instead of being fucked within an inch of your life. “I’d say that means you pass. Congratulations, Karkat! Can I call you Karkat now?” He says it almost innocently, and you want to punch him in the mouth, but most of your body won’t cooperate. You also want to just lie here, even if it's face down and ass up, because you’re so _tired._ You feel something rough and cool and wet drape across your shoulders, and you glance up just enough to see Strider. You hope he’s not asking for another round, because you’re sure you _will_ die if you even _think_ about fucking for the next week or so.

But you’re in luck, because he just nudges you with his boot. You notice a bit of a purplish stain on the toe. “Free wet towel. You can’t use the ablutions stall, but you can wipe yourself down with that.” He says, and combs a hand through his hair. He makes a face when he realizes it leaves streaks of slurry in it. Serves him right.

Shaking, you peel yourself out of the tacky puddle and use the towel to wipe off as much of the gunk as you can, from yourself and from your ruined suit. Miraculously, the slurry didn’t get _through_ the suit, but when you pull it on you still squish a little, and your nook protests in agony where fabric meets your crotch. You’ll be limping a bit, probably.

Or a lot. A lot sounds more likely.

When you’re mostly clean, Strider waves you off and Egbert shows you to the door. He even kisses you on the cheek, like a matesprit might, but you know the implication: You belong to them now.

“I guess I’ll be seeing you around, then!” He beams at you, before closing the door. You stand there for a minute, swaying slightly, and then start to drag yourself back down the hall to your quarters.

Your blockpals are already asleep when you arrive, or at least pretending to be. You wonder how long you’ve been getting fucked in there, and then you realize you don’t care. You strip down and hiss in pain as you slide into the sopor, aching in places you didn’t know you had, but there’s a weird satisfaction in it, too. You did it. You got them to take your offer, even if it’s at the cost of your dignity and probably the integrity of your character _and_ your genitals.

But that doesn’t matter.

You’re safe, for now, if you just do what they say.

You sleep.


End file.
